“All she ever does is entertain. She never has a real conversation,” my mom said.
I glanced back over my shoulder at the woman mom was talking about. I liked B. She made me laugh. I was 14.
“It’s a performance every single day,” mom said, walking to the car. “Drives me crazy.”
I didn’t understand what mom was talking about. B. made everyone laugh. People lingered to talk to her. I wanted to be like that. Who didn’t?
Writing is conflicted. You stay alone in your room playing with imaginary people who can’t do whatever you say. Then you seek out attention–if you want publication that is. How easy is it for you to make that switch? If you can’t stand the attention, can you get published?